The Spy Who (Kind of, Sort of, Maybe) Loved Me - Part One
The Spy Who (Kind of, Sort of, Maybe) Loved Me
Masterpost
Brendon is running.
He can feel that stitch in his side start to develop, and for it to happen after all that training and experience, it means he’s been running hard and fast and for quite a while. But then there’s adrenaline, too, and that’s going through his system and helping him focus and power through.
“Brendon, meet me at location four. Do you copy?” Spencer’s voice sounds through his ear, clear, as if he was standing right next to him instead of outside the building, twenty floors down. Brendon has to get down there fast.
He can still hear his pursuer behind him. It’s faint, but he’s still there. Brendon thought he took out all the security guards, but apparently, he’d overlooked one. Stupid.
“Spencer, I copy.” He gets to the end of the hallway and presses the up button for the elevator and sees that the one on the right is heading his way. He doesn’t waste too much time as he bursts through the door to the stairwell and heads down one floor, jumping three stairs at a time.
“Spencer,” he says again, as he makes it through the door, “manually override the elevator doors, nineteenth floor, right elevator.” Another second and the doors open to reveal an elevator cable.
Brendon steps to the edge and looks up to see the elevator car waiting above him for the person who called it but never boarded. He flips a small switch on one of the gloves he has on, and his fingertips start to cool. He leaps out and grabs the cable just as his pursuer bursts out of the stairwell door, and Brendon says, “Spencer, elevator doors, now!”
He hangs for a second almost twenty stories above the ground as the doors close, takes a breath, and flips another switch on his glove, causing the traction setting to switch off and allowing Brendon to zip down the elevator cable. The cool setting he’d turned on earlier helps to counteract the friction, and as the air rushes past him while he steadily approaches the ground, Brendon thinks he ought to thank Patrick for yet another fine invention.
Brendon sees the ground coming close and flips the traction switch again to slow himself down. He hops off and says, “Spencer, first floor elevator doors.” They open, and Brendon climbs out quickly while pulling his mask back on. He jogs past the security guards at the station, still completely passed out from earlier, and out the front doors to location four.
“Exiting building. Forty-five seconds.” Brendon finds the black van easily, jogs up to it, and hops in next to Spencer.
“Ready?” Spencer asks.
Brendon nods after he pulls off his mask. “Can I do it?”
Spencer scoffs. “Pyro,” he says, but he hands the trigger to Brendon anyway. With a press of a button, a loud boom is heard from the twentieth floor, the control room to be exact.
“Got the files?” Spencer asks as he drives away on the main road like a bomb did not just go off.
“What kind of agent do you think I am?” Brendon says as he pulls several file folders out from under his shirt.
Spencer gives him a look. “A forgetful one.”
“God, that was one time.”
“Jeez, Bren, calm down.” Spencer can sense when his partner shifts into whining mode. “I’m just checking.”
Spencer turns a dial, and the van is filled with Metallica as they head back to headquarters. The two sing along to the song blasting through the speakers (“Nomad, vagabond, call me what you will!”), getting so far into it that they’re air-guitaring and air-drumming to the music.
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Brendon’s shoulder is cold due to the slipping of his sheets and his own nudity. That’s not what woke him from his slumber though. And it’s not his alarm clock since that’s not due to sound for another two hours. It’s not the body of a beautiful, equally naked man stirring next to him since Brendon hasn’t slept with anyone in months; he’s just too busy with work sometimes. It’s not some nightmare where Brendon is running for his life away from aliens with three heads and blaster guns.
It’s his phone.
He groans as he reaches for it on the sleek glass nightstand by his bed. “Humph-ello?” Brendon mumbles into the receiver.
“Brendon, it’s Jon.” Brendon’s eyes fly open. He shouldn’t be getting a call from him at this time. He’s not due at the office for another five and a half hours.
Brendon clears his throat, hoping it would clear away the sleep in his voice. “Good morning, sir.”
Jon sighs. “Enough with the formalities, Brendon. Now is not the time. You’re aware of the early hour, I’m sure, so you must realize that we have an emergency. I need you at headquarters in one hour. You will be briefed as soon as you and Spencer both arrive.”
“Yes, sir.” Brendon coughs. “I mean, Jon.”
Brendon pulls the simple black sheets away from his naked body as he shuts off his alarm since it’s useless to him now. He was supposed to get up at six, not four. There goes his early morning run and breakfast at the diner. Brendon’s day has started ahead of schedule.
He gets up from the bed, his feet cold against the hardwood floors of his sparse bedroom as he walks into his bathroom and straight into his shower to turn it on. The shower doors are clear glass, but they soon fog up, letting Brendon know it’s hot enough. The shock of water wakes him up a little more. Dammit, he’d only gotten two hours of sleep at best. It must be important if they’re waking him up so early after having completed a mission for them just a few short hours ago. Brendon puts a hand out so that he’s leaning against the shower wall, letting the water roll off his body.
After only five minutes in the shower - he has to be at work in one hour - Brendon gets out, drying himself as quickly as possible and wrapping the towel around his waist. He grabs his toothbrush and applies a little toothpaste so that he can brush his teeth while picking out what he’s going to wear.
Brendon opens the door to his walk-in, toothbrush poking out of his mouth, and decides on a sleek charcoal tailored suit, a black-, white-, and pink-striped tie, argyle socks (also with a little pink in it), and black dress shoes. He feels that, even with a strict dress code, where he does have room for creativity, he should exploit it.
After getting dressed, he sees that he only has twenty minutes to get to the office, so he grabs his keys from the key hook by the door. He completely bypasses the coffeemaker and decides that if he does not want to be too late, he should skip his coffee, even though it’s usually a bad idea to do so.
He’s already sensing the long day ahead of him.
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Brendon’s silver car is one of a very few out on the road at just shy of five in the morning. He easily navigates the streets he drives every day and pulls into the parking garage next to a restaurant, the outdoor seating still pushed up against the building, going through to the “Monthly Access” section with the wave of a card. Though there are plenty of spaces on the first floor, Brendon drives down, down, down to the bottom level, which is curiously filled with cars. He thinks that they should be more careful, but it’s early and Brendon could be assed to park farther away so he assumes that that’s everyone else’s logic.
He presses the up button and the elevator dings and opens. He walks in and the elevator starts to move up, but Brendon whips out a key and inserts it into the keyhole supposedly there for maintenance. He turns it and pulls down to reveal a keypad with a speaker. He types in the code (0826) and an electronic, feminine voice speaks, “Voice identification.”
“Brendon Urie,” he says, and the elevator immediately reverses its route to go down, even though he is supposedly on the bottom level. He rides the elevator as he stifles a yawn, and the doors finally open.
“Welcome, Agent Urie,” the voice says as he steps out into the headquarters of FBR420, or “the office” as Brendon likes to call it. He likes to think he’s somewhat normal.
Though there are quite a few people in at the moment, more than there would have been at this time on a normal day, it’s still not the full staff of agents and employees. But he sees Cash, one of the newer agents, waiting for him in the lobby. “Ah, Agent Urie,” he says.
“Brendon,” he corrects. He understands why Jon corrects him all the time; even though he’s higher in rank than Cash, he doesn’t exactly like someone he considers a friend being so formal.
“Right, Brendon,” Cash says uncomfortably. Brendon has to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He’s still kind of new. “Mr. Walker and Agent Smith are in the conference room already. You were supposed to be in-”
“Five minutes ago, I know. Thanks, man.” Brendon claps him on the back. “I guess I better go see what all this is about.”
Cash nods. “Guess so. Good luck, Brendon.”
When Brendon enters the conference room, he notices three things. The first is Spencer hunched over a cup of coffee and clinging to it like his life depended on it. The second is Jon’s red eyes. The third is Mr. Wentz on the large plasma screen. Shit, they’re bringing in the big guns. And what’s worse is Brendon is late.
“Sorry, I’m-” Brendon begins but is interrupted by Mr. Wentz on the screen.
“It’s okay, Agent Urie. Have a seat.” Brendon does so, shaking away the feeling that there is something off about the TV screen. Spencer next to him takes a large gulp of his coffee, and Brendon starts to wonder when he can get some when Jon surprisingly brings him a mug with a tired smile.
“Alright,” Mr. Wentz continues, “we’re all here. Now, Agent Smith, Agent Urie, what Mr. Walker and I are about to tell you is classified. Not everyone knows, at least not yet, and we have to keep it that way for the time being.”
“Yes, sir,” both he and Spencer say to the video screen.
“Good,” Mr. Wentz says. “Now it is my regret to inform you that Mr. Beckett has been murdered.”
Spencer gasps next to him, and Brendon’s mouth drops open. “In his office, no less, some time between 2330 hours last night and 0100 hours this morning.” On the screen next to Mr. Wentz’s screen, a fairly graphic picture of a bleeding slender man on the floor comes up, and had none of the men in the room been used to such gruesomeness, they would have turned away immediately. Still, since it is a picture of someone they all knew, it is quite difficult to stomach. To distract himself, Brendon looks away and takes a sip of his coffee, finding that Jon has put in the right amount of sugar and milk (milk, not cream) that he likes.
“Agent Urie,” Brendon’s eyes swing back to the screen, “Agent Smith, this is an internal investigation. Since only a select few of the CIA know of this operation’s existence, it is only acceptable for a team of our own agents to bring Mr. Beckett’s killer in. You two are the most trustworthy for a number of reasons.” Brendon and Spencer glance at each other briefly, and then their eyes are back at the screen.
“First of all, you have the lowest percentage of failed missions, now that… well,” Wentz says, frowning, and Brendon wonders what the end of that sentence was supposed to be. “Also, both of your whereabouts are accounted for since you had just completed a mission for us and were debriefed by Mr. Walker here.” To Brendon’s left, Jon nods. “Lastly, we needed one of Walker’s teams, and you two were the ones he recommended.”
“Sir,” Spencer pipes up, “why one of Mr. Walker’s teams?”
“Well, we could not use one of Mr. Beckett’s teams. His agents would be more… emotional, and therefore, more likely to make mistakes. We can’t risk it, plus they should be given a bit of time to grieve. And Mr. Saporta is… Well, he and Mr. Beckett were very close friends, and he’s very distraught right now,” explains Wentz.
“It’s understandable,” Jon comments.
“Now, gentlemen. Here is your objective. Bring this man in, preferably alive.” The pictures on the screen switch, and the men in the room are met with several pictures of a thin man. Their target, it seems, has brown wavy hair, curling more at the nape of the neck. His face makes him seem young, much younger than Brendon or Spencer, though the sharpness of his jaw line and the hint of stubble on his countenance make Brendon question this instinct.
The first couple of pictures feature their suspect in crisp designer suits and expensive sunglasses. If he were a hitman, he’d have to be pretty damn good to be able to afford all that. But the last of the pictures is what draws Brendon’s attention, being similar to the one Brendon had had taken of himself when he joined the agency two years ago.
He frowns, confused, as Spencer voices Brendon’s own thoughts aloud. “He’s CIA?”
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Wentz says from the smaller plasma screen to the right as the feed has moved to better showcase the pictures of their mark, “meet George Ryan Ross, age twenty-four, former FBR420 agent. He went by his middle name for as long as he’d been with us.”
Something inside Brendon’s head clicks. Greta really does give him the best gossip. “Wait,” Brendon says, unable to help himself, “isn’t he the guy who gave up his partner a few months ago?”
Brendon’s eyes flick over to Jon, who gives him a look that tells him he needs to be shutting up soon. Interrupting Mr. Wentz during a briefing was definitely not allowed.
“Agent Urie, I was getting to that,” Mr. Wentz says, tone slightly annoyed.
“Now, Agent Ross was arguably the most talented agent we had while he was part of the CIA. He has an incredibly high IQ, tested extremely well during training, and is remarkably well versed in different types of hand-to-hand combat.”
Brendon has to keep himself from huffing too loudly. Dammit, he had all those things. So did everyone else at the agency; that was the point.
“Considering the pool of elite individuals in FBR420 that he’s being compared to, saying that he was one of our best and brightest really means something.”
What was so special about this guy anyway? Brendon couldn’t think of much. Judging from the pictures, he looks quite breakable. Trying to size this guy up begins to get downright distracting, however, when Brendon’s eyes roam over the man’s mouth, slightly open and just a tad bitable. A nudge to his arm from Spencer brings him back to focusing on their mission. Right, their mission. Their mark.
“Four months ago,” Mr. Wentz says, continuing his explanation, “Agent Ross was captured on mission in North Korea. He was tortured for days and then, amazingly enough, let go.” Pictures of Ross shirtless, bruised, battered, and cut up flash on the screen. “It turned out that his partner, Agent Wilson, had been taken from their safe house, and a week later, his body was found in a top secret CIA raid conducted by other FBR420 agents.” The pictures switch to those of another man, obviously having been dead for several days and lying on a dirty concrete floor, and then to several of a body bag.
“It was then our belief that Ross gave up his partner under torture, despite the fact that he has been trained extensively to handle that exact situation as you all know. Ross had insisted that he hadn’t, but unfortunately, he’s also a trained liar and the evidence was just against him.
The pictures switch again to show Mr. Beckett, dead in his office. “Mr. Beckett was Ross and Wilson’s handler, the one who ultimately decided to disavow and dismiss him. There, gentlemen, is the motive: revenge.”
Brendon blinks and turns to look at Spencer, who just stares at the screens, face unreadable. Jeez, this guy is some kind of bastard, Brendon thinks. He can’t even begin to think about giving up Spencer to die and murdering Jon. Brendon will really enjoy taking this guy down, no matter how good-looking he appears to be. This guy doesn’t deserve to have ever been a part of the agency.
Mr. Wentz’s tone shifts. “Now, Mr. Walker, it is up to you to direct your team further on whatever course you would like them to take to achieve their objective. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, sir,” the three men in the room reply automatically, and the feed of Mr. Wentz at his desk in God-knows-where switches off.
There’s a loud sigh, and Brendon realizes that it collectively came from all three of them. He takes a large gulp of his coffee, waiting to feel energized and alert like he always does when given a mission, but it doesn’t fully come. This time, it’s not just a mission. This time, it feels pretty personal.
“So where do we start?” Spencer asks, and Brendon’s gaze moves to look at him and follows Spencer’s own towards Jon.
“Guys,” Jon says, “we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. While waiting for you two to show up, I did some checking, normal stuff, you know. The basics.”
“And?” Brendon asks, though he’s certain it’s not exactly awesome news.
“And Ryan Ross is going to be a little difficult to track down. He was one of our agents after all, so he knows how to cover his tracks. As soon as he was dismissed from the agency, he emptied all of his accounts, which had held a substantial amount. He was rich, had inherited a ton of money when his tycoon father died of a heart attack, and we don’t know where any of his money went, probably in some numbered Swiss bank account. He’d stopped using his real name publicly long ago for such things, and he hasn’t gone by any of his former aliases recently. He sold all of his property: his home, his father’s home, his cars, stocks, bonds. His paper trail ended three months ago.”
Damn, Brendon thinks. He’s good, must’ve been planning to disappear for a while.
“I do have some good news though,” Jon says, sounding slightly optimistic. He walks over to the console by the TVs and inserts a flash drive. He grabs a tiny remote and presses a button, causing several grainy pictures, obviously from security cameras, to come up. Upon closer inspection, they appear to be of Ross, and the timestamps on the bottom show that they’re fairly recent.
“He has been spotted several places. A few times in New York, once in Lisbon, but for the most part, all other sightings, though relatively few, have been in or around Los Angeles, mostly the west side. It appears that he hadn’t left the city after being dismissed as we’d originally thought,” Jon explains.
“What makes you think he’s still in LA?” Spencer asks as he takes down notes on a yellow legal pad. “Mr. Beckett was killed several hours ago. He could be long gone by now.”
Jon shakes his head. “He knows that we’re monitoring LAX, Burbank Airport, even Van Nuys in case he had a private plane ready. Protocol, you know? He may have driven to Vegas, San Diego, maybe even San Francisco, but it makes a lot more sense to hide in a city of thirteen million people until everyone’s calmed down and given up looking.”
“Alright,” Brendon says, mostly to get himself to focus, to think, “we need to find him. Where exactly has he been spotted?”
“A couple of times in Calabasas, once in Santa Monica at a store on Third St., and three times in a vegan restaurant in Malibu,” Jon answers. “It’s not much to go on. He is wealthy enough to live in these areas comfortably, but he could definitely live elsewhere anyway.”
“Yeah, well, it’s something,” Brendon responds.
Spencer sighs. “I guess we’ve got some work ahead of us.”
“I already had Ross’s file Xeroxed for you guys to go over.” Jon walks over to a side table, picks up two fairly thick manila folders, and hands Spencer and Brendon each a copy. “When we have a lead, we’ll go from there and devise a plan.” The tone of Jon’s voice suggests that the briefing will soon come to a close.
“It is now six AM,” he continues. “In a few hours, the rest of the agents and staff members that are not on mission will be coming in, and Mr. Saporta and I are charged with informing them of Mr. Beckett’s death. I highly suggest that the two of you leave for the day and work from home.” Jon walks over and places a hand on each of their shoulders, offering a tired half-smile. “We called you two in quite early, and you must get some sleep. Plus, I’m guessing FBR420 will be a difficult place to concentrate in when everyone finds out, what with all the emotions and gossip flooding the atmosphere.”
“Okay, Jon,” Spencer mumbles, rubbing his eyes again.
“Yeah, alright,” Brendon agrees.
“You two are good to go,” Jon says with a final pat and then goes for the door, Spencer and Brendon getting up and following.
When they exit the conference room, the agents in the office are blatantly staring, trying to examine their faces and guess what exactly is going on. Spencer tiredly heads straight for the elevator while Jon goes down a hallway in the direction of his office. Brendon is about to leave also, but he spots a hint of a Hawaiian shirt among the suits and heads for the tech end of the large room, shifting the large folder in his hand so that he doesn’t drop it and send pages flying.
“Hey, Patrick,” Brendon says, clapping the bespectacled man on the back. “What are you up to?”
The man jumps, and his Hawaiian shirt flaps open a little when he does so, revealing a plain white undershirt. As Brendon eyes the cargo shorts, sandals with socks, and trucker cap, he entertains the thought that only a genius like Patrick could get away with coming to work in such attire. The man is quite the character.
“Jesus, Brendon,” Patrick gasps, pushing his glasses up with his knuckle. As he talks, he gestures wildly. “How many times have I told you not to do that? Who knows what kind of dangerous chemical I could be handling or what expensive equipment I might be working on? Be more careful, man.”
Brendon shrugs innocently. “Sorry,” he mutters as he sets down Ross’s file onto Patrick’s desk. “I just wanted to tell you how awesome those gloves you gave me are. They turned out to be pretty useful last night.”
Patrick grins proudly, seemingly having forgotten his agitation from just a moment ago. “Really? Sweet! The traction setting worked alright, did it?”
“Oh, totally,” Brendon answers, nodding. “And the cooling thing was a nice touch.”
“Well, I’m glad you liked it.”
“What are you working on now?” Brendon asks, looking over Patrick’s shoulder curiously.
Patrick says excitedly and grabs a pot of what appears to be face cream. “This.”
“Moisturizer,” Brendon deadpans.
Patrick laughs. “Uh, no! This stuff is the key to making any agent a master of disguise.”
He picks up a glass rod and dips it into the lotion, and when he holds it up to Brendon, right by his nose, Brendon can just about make out the sparkles. “Glitter lotion?”
“I thought you were supposed to be smart, Urie. This, my friend, contains millions and millions of teeny, tiny, microscopic computers. They communicate to each other via local signal to judge the topography of a person’s face and together reflect back the face of another person!”
Brendon blinks. “So…”
“So if you put this on, you can look like anyone. Better than a mask! You just need a DNA sample to pre-program it, again via signal, and they run on solar power. Stick the pot in the sun for an hour, and you’re good for half a night. The lotion won’t melt either. I call it New Face Cream.”
Brendon blinks once more, and then he understands exactly how cool Patrick’s invention is. “Can I try it out?!” he asks excitedly.
Patrick frowns and opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut off by a sweet, feminine voice a few feet away. “He won’t let anyone near that thing. I already tried.”
Brendon notes how lovely Greta is looking this morning, though he’s always thought she was never short of gorgeous-looking. She must have woken up at an even ungodlier hour than Brendon had, but her blond curls fall in the right places, pushed away from her face by the headset she has on, and her skin glows against the soft blue of her shirtdress despite that fact.
“Greta! What are you hacking into today?” Brendon asks her as he goes over to her chair to give her a quick hug.
“Nothing as of yet,” she answers, pulling back. “I’m only on call in case Siska and Carden can’t take care of it themselves. I can’t figure out why Mr. Beckett hasn’t come by to pester me though. Always the one to look over my shoulder, but not this morning. Maybe it’s too early.”
Pre-training Brendon would’ve definitely flinched at her words. Instead, he tries to steer the conversation away from the topic of Mr. Beckett. He can’t talk about it, but Greta will know the truth soon enough anyway.
“Yeah, maybe. But seriously, why won’t Patrick let anyone try out the New Face Cream?”
Greta is about to answer when Patrick says, “I can hear you. And I won’t let anyone try it out because it’s still in its testing phase. It’s closed off to all agents right now except under extreme cases that need to be authorized by Mr. Wentz himself.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brendon says dismissively. “Well, what do you have that I can play with?”
“They’re not toys,” Patrick says in a serious tone, and Brendon rolls his eyes. “But the crossbow with programmable arrows I invented just got out of the testing phase and is now in beta. Come with me and I’ll show you.”
Brendon follows Patrick down a spiral staircase to his lab, waving to Greta as she plays around with a bit of code while waiting to hear from the team on mission. The two stop at a cart set up in front of a target and other obstacles. Patrick then bends down and comes back up holding a crossbow. On the side of it are a screen and a number pad, and when Patrick places it in Brendon’s arms and powers it on, he finds that it is surprisingly light.
“Alright so what you do is take the stylus,” he says as he unclips what looks like a pen from the underside of the crossbow, “and draw the path you want the arrow to take on the touch screen.” Patrick draws a zigzag pattern with the stylus. “Then enter the approximate distance it will travel on the key pad.” He punches some numbers and taps the word “meters” on the touch screen with the stylus. “Now aim and shoot.”
Standing on the masking tape X on the floor, Brendon notices that, from his position, several of the obstacles Patrick set up in front of the target are very much in the way. Still, he trusts Patrick so he takes aim anyway and shoots. Remarkably, the arrow follows the exact path Patrick has drawn, going completely around each of the obstacles and ending up right at the bull’s-eye of the target.
“Holy shit! That’s awesome!” Brendon says excitedly. “Fuck line-of-sight, man.”
“Ahem, Brendon.”
Brendon whips around, eyes wide and still holding the crossbow. “Mr. Walker! I mean, Jon.”
“Brendon, don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks with a half amused, half exasperated tone.
“I… Yes. Yes, I do. Sorry, uh…” Brendon hands Patrick the crossbow and mutters, “Thanks.”
He walks quickly, passing Jon at the bottom of the spiral staircase, and as he ascends it, he senses Jon close behind. When they get back up to the office, Brendon picks up the folder from Patrick’s desk and says goodbye to Greta before heading towards the elevator. Jon is still behind him, and Brendon turns to face him only when he pushes the button to call the elevator.
“Remember, Brendon. Get some rest before you tackle this thing.” Jon nods at the folder. “Spencer, I know, won’t listen to me. The guy is probably going to pore over them until he passes out face first in the file,” he says, smiling easily. “But you sleep. We need your mind sharp.”
Brendon nods just as the elevator bell dings. “Okay, Jon,” he says, as he walks in.
Jon holds the elevator door back. “You’re due in tomorrow at 1700 hours unless told otherwise. See you then,” he says smiling tiredly at Brendon. Then he steps back, and the doors close.
Brendon rubs the bridge of his nose as the elevator moves up, up, up. He can feel the weight of everything: the tragedy that is Mr. Beckett’s death, the anger towards this stranger, this Ross, that he’s supposed to catch, the lack of sleep, the necessary secrecy among colleagues, the stress of the responsibility he’d just been endowed. It’s a lot to take on, especially at just shy of seven in the morning.
He’s suddenly incredibly thankful of Jon for sending him home.
When Brendon gets to his condo, he plops Ross’s file down on the table by the door along with his keys, wallet, and phone and toes off his shoes. He sighs and slips off his jacket, tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of his couch as he loosens his tie. Eventually, it ends up on the floor next to his coffee table. Then, it is Brendon’s shirt that has to go, unbuttoning it as he walks further through his apartment, and eventually, it lands by the door to the kitchen. In the hallway, his pants fall and pool at his ankles, and he steps out of them so that when he reaches his bedroom door, he’s only in his boxers and socks. Brendon hops a little as he tugs the socks off, and before collapsing fully onto his bed, he pulls down his boxers swiftly because he can’t sleep with them on. It’d be too uncomfortable otherwise.
Brendon groans, letting himself relax further into the comfort of his mattress before lazily pulling his covers, loose and bunched around the side of the bed from not having been made yet, around him. He presses his face into a pillow that he wraps his arms around, and sleep overtakes him quickly, wrapping him in a heavy, dreamless cocoon.
When he wakes up, his eyes slip open easily, and the sunlight sneaking in from behind sloppily shut curtains is bright. He turns his head and sees that it’s two in the afternoon. That’s enough rest, he thinks.
Brendon stretches in bed a little and then slides out of bed. He gives a half-hearted glance to his boxers on the floor and decides to put them on before walking out to grab his stuff from the table by the door. As he looks around his apartment at his clothes strewn about, he thinks with a soft chuckle that, if someone were to walk in, they’d think that Brendon was definitely not alone and that something fun and dirty happened here. He’ll pick up his clothes later.
First, he goes into the kitchen to make a sandwich since he’s starving. Then he goes out and grabs his phone and Ross’s folder from the table and takes them with him to the living room so that he has room to work. He takes a seat on the couch, still just in his boxers, and takes a huge bite out of his sandwich before flipping open the file.
The first thing he sees is a copy of Ryan Ross’s picture from when he was in the CIA. Brendon’s eyes sweep over the picture, focusing on and analyzing the man’s creamy complexion, his sharply defined jaw. Without the sunglasses, his eyes are a shockingly light brown, contrasting with Brendon’s own dark chocolate eyes. In a word, handsome.
It’s only then that Brendon remembers, and the flash of the scene his memory gives him takes over. He’d seen him once around the office, talking with Greta at her station next to Patrick’s and making her laugh. He had made a mental note at the time to ask her about him. He thought he was cute, had a nice smile. But then Jon had called Spencer and him in for a mission, and it completely slipped his mind, what with having to go to Chile to dismantle a terrorist unit and all. Brendon grabs a pen and a pad of paper from the coffee table and makes a note to have a talk with her. Maybe they knew each other, and she could give him a little insight.
The next several pages are full of detail after detail of the missions Ross had completed for the CIA, not to mention all of the aliases he had under the agency. Brendon has to admit it. Ross was good. He had been the point man in most of their missions with his partner, Agent Brent Wilson, as backup and technical support. There are several good, almost praising remarks on the reports, and Brendon knows that Mr. Beckett had written all of them, as it is the moderator’s job to fill these out. To him, it seems like Ross was Beckett’s favorite, and the thought only makes Brendon frown even more.
Then comes the section from before Ross entered the CIA. Brendon had forgotten how much the agency knows about its agents’ pasts, but it is all necessary for recruitment purposes. Everything from grade transcripts and test scores (all of them perfect) to newspaper clippings of his father’s heart attack and death when he was fifteen, leading him to be looked after by a distant uncle on his mother’s side. She had died during childbirth. Brendon had expected as much, since he knows that the agency prefers to recruit people with little to no pre-existing ties to facilitate secrecy. Brendon himself was orphaned as a child, and he knows Spencer was too. The difference was that Brendon went from foster home to foster home and had a tough upbringing, while Spencer was sent to boarding school by his grandfather.
Brendon shakes his head to focus his thought back to the task at hand. He’s down to the last couple of pages in the file, and upon inspection, they’re just notes on “miscellaneous” information about Ross, no doubt observations Beckett had made. Brendon almost laughs when he realizes that there is a list (yes, list) of the names of Ross’s former lovers, along with the year or years they went out. This is beyond creepy, and he wonders if Jon had written out a similar list in his own file. When he reads them off, however, he smirks when he notices a shift from clearly feminine names to clearly not feminine names. Alongside this list is a list of band names, most of the classic rock variety, and Brendon finds himself humming in agreement. On the next page, there is a long list of books, and Brendon assumes that they’re Ross’s favorites. He snorts when he sees The Prince among them and mumbles, “Well, Beckett, that should’ve been your first clue.” From the rest on the page, Brendon gathers that Ross prefers brushing with Colgate Total, uses Herbal Essences hair products, takes his coffee with half and half, likes his steak cooked medium rare, and hates tomato slices on his sandwiches and cheeseburgers. Very uninteresting and completely useless.
He shuts the folder with a sigh and tosses it back onto the coffee table. Brendon shivers a little and looks to the window, noting that it is already dark out. He walks to his room, picking up the clothes he’d left on the floor on his way, and throws them all into the hamper in his closet. He grabs a random shirt, dark gray, and pulls it on, and after a little hesitation, he tugs on a pair of light gray jeans. Brendon decides that he should go out and get something to eat since his stomach is grumbling, having long forgotten the sandwich he’d made and eaten earlier. He pulls on a hoodie and chuckles to himself about how now he actually looks like the twenty-three year old he is, maybe even younger. He locates his phone, wallet, and keys and stops at the mirror by the door to run one last hand through his hair before leaving.
Brendon drives around, hoping to figure out what he wants to eat. Italian? No. Mexican? Eh, not really. Vegan? He’d given up that endeavor a year ago when he realized that there really was no good substitute for ch-
He brakes suddenly, and Brendon watches through his rearview mirror as the Range Rover behind him swerves around him and into the lane next to him with a loud honk. A moment later, the driver moves past him, displaying his middle finger angrily, but Brendon isn’t paying attention. His mind is moving quickly, scanning through all he knows like it is one old card catalog in a library and he is definitely in the right drawer. He only needs to find the card, and he’s just thumbing through them all frantically.
What did Jon say? He was spotted in a vegan restaurant in Malibu. Three times. But it seemed Ross wasn’t vegan, since there are notes about how he liked his steak (quite pink, Brendon might add) and that he ate cheeseburgers. Well, a person doesn’t have to be vegan to eat in a vegan restaurant. He could’ve been meeting someone, or he could’ve just liked the food. But three times in the last couple of months he was spotted, meaning there could have been many more times other than those.
Alright, so he didn’t have anything. He’s pissing off a lane full of angry LA drivers for something that Spencer would’ve laughed at him for, would’ve told him that, since he doesn’t have an answer, he’s just trying to get to one in the most convoluted way possible. But Brendon can’t get the nagging feeling that Ross went there for a reason out of his head, so he makes a U-turn and angers even more LA drivers.
On his way back to his apartment, he drives with his left hand, leaving his right free to text Jon. What was the name of the restaurant in Malibu? Brendon knows Jon would know which one he’s talking about.
Within the minute, Jon texts him back. Leaves of Grass.
Okay, Brendon thinks, I’m definitely onto something. The name of the restaurant is the same as a book he distinctly remembers being on Ross’s list of favorites. He remembers because he likes Whitman too. There is some connection that Brendon is not getting, but he is sure that it means something either way.
He finally pulls into his spot in the garage and rushes out of his car to his apartment. Brendon can’t get the door open fast enough, and he runs into his room, which is where he last left his laptop. He finds it under his bed and pulls it out and onto his lap. Brendon opens it, and it comes back on, showing his mail application and Firefox already open. He quickly Googles “Leaves of Grass” with the word “Malibu” after it, so as not to get any Walt Whitman poetry, and the second link is the one for the restaurant’s website, so he clicks on it. The color scheme is earthy, yellows and browns with some green, and the food looks good. Brendon’s stomach growls, as if to say, “Remember me?”
Brendon clicks on the “About” link, and he skims but a couple of sentences until he grins. “A-ha!” he says to himself, as he gets up, leaving the computer on his bed to go out into the living room to get Ross’s file. He opens it on his way back to his bedroom and flips to the second to the last page with the list of lovers. His eyes land on the first male name, Alexander Greenwald. They then flick up to the computer screen where it says clearly in yellow font, “Owner and head chef, Alex Greenwald…” Brendon doesn’t need to know the rest of the sentence.
He can feel it in every nerve of his body that this man is the key to finding Ryan Ross.
All Brendon needs to do now is more research. He can’t go to Jon and Spencer with just this hunch come five o’clock tomorrow. He needs to have something more, something of substance. And he knows Google is not going to cut it. He works for a secret branch of the CIA, for crying out loud.
It’s finally time to call Greta. She is what the agency calls a “swing agent”, since she isn’t part of any one team or under any one moderator, but because she is a specialist, she is at the disposal of any team that needs her expertise the most. FBR420 has several swing agents in employment; Patrick is technically one, though no one, not even Mr. Wentz refers to him by anything but his first name.
In short, Greta, or Agent Salpeter to anyone not in her good graces, is a hacker, the best that Brendon has ever come in contact with. He has seen her take down complex firewalls in a matter of seconds and practically stroll through the most secure servers. Greta has constructed many a virus in her day and is on the very team keeping FBR420’s information safe and protected. She can also find out anything about anyone. Give her a name and a city, and she’ll give you credit card and bank information, confidential patient files from local hospitals, tax histories, criminal records, and real estate histories within the hour.
Brendon needs to find out where this Alex guy lives, and looking in the white pages is not going to cut it (he already tried, unlisted). He needs to bring in the big guns and get as much information on this man as possible before presenting his hunch to Jon and Spencer during their afternoon meeting the next day. Who knows? Maybe there will be another break in the case.
He grabs his phone and dials the number for work, plus a few other numbers to make sure his line is secure. Then he punches in Greta’s extension, but all he hears is ringing on the other end of the line, until it goes to her voicemail. “Call me as soon as you get this. It’s Brendon,” he says hurriedly before hanging up with a sigh. It was nearing eight o’clock, and she’d already been at the office for hours, so he can’t blame her for not being in. Brendon tosses around the idea of going to another one of the hackers, but even though Greta isn’t the only one qualified to help him, she is the only one that he trusts.
Heavy, firm knocking on the door interrupts his thoughts, and Brendon frowns because he certainly had not been expecting anyone. He goes to answer it and is shocked to find none other than Greta standing in his doorway. Her blond curls have gone limp, and her once peaches-and-cream complexion from earlier has turned ashen.
“Greta!” Brendon says, surprised. “I was just trying to call you.”
She gives a tired half-smile. “Yeah? Well, come on. I’m taking you to dinner.”
Brendon shakes his head. “I can’t,” he tells her. “I have so much work to do and-”
“We really need to talk,” she says, interrupting him, and he shuts up at the seriousness of her voice. “Dinner. I insist on it.”
-----------------
On a weeknight, the Beverly Center isn’t as busy as it normally is, so after parking in the garage, they only need to go down the escalator a few floors. At the bottom, a homeless man is leaning against the wall, asking for change or food. Three more steps past him and Greta and Brendon enter the warmly lit Grand Lux Café. They’re seated promptly by the hostess in a comfortable booth. He orders iced tea to drink; she orders wine. Brendon waits for her to start explaining, but she appears to be stalling as best as she can, given how occupied she is with her menu. The waiter comes soon enough with their drinks, takes their orders, collects their menus, and leaves, and Greta is left with no other choice but to start.
“Now, what did you want to talk to me about?” Brendon prompts.
She sighs and bites her lip, looking down once at the napkin in her lap, and then looking up and meeting his eyes. “I saw that you have Ryan Ross’s file,” she confesses. “When you went down to Patrick’s lab and you left it on his desk, I looked.”
“O… kay,” he says slowly, furrowing his brow.
Greta continues, “At first, I was wondering what you were doing with it. His case had been closed for months, and he was long gone from the agency. I was sure you didn’t even know him.” She takes a deep breath. “And then you left for the day, and Mr. Walker and Mr. Saporta came out and…”
Her lip trembles a little, and she looks down at her napkin again and sniffles. Greta is crying. “I made that quip about him earlier, and I didn’t mean it. He did a really good job with his teams, always worked really hard. I just-”
Brendon reaches over and lays his hand over her clenched fist on the table. He calmly pries her fingers apart and laces their hands together. “I know,” he whispers.
She looks up, eyes teary and nose red, and Greta picks up her napkin with her free hand and wipes at her nose. “Thanks,” she mumbles, and Brendon gives her hand a squeeze before letting go.
“Anytime.”
“Anyway,” Greta goes on, “I quickly pieced together what was going on. They think that Ross killed him, and you and Spencer are supposed to bring him in, right?”
Brendon hesitates. She isn’t supposed to know, but it isn’t his fault that she figured out. Okay, maybe it is a little. Finally, he nods.
“That’s what I thought. Otherwise, why were you two in so early for a meeting after you’d just finished a mission? There are rumors flying all over FBR420, I’ll have you know.”
Brendon watches her take a long drink from her wineglass before setting it firmly back on the table. “I’ve thought long and hard about this,” she says. “I sought you out because I have to tell you what I know.”
“And what do you know?” he asks slowly.
“Well, for starters, I know where he has been living.”
Brendon’s jaw drops. “And where…?”
“With my boyfriend,” she answers as their waiter brings their plates. The two thank him quietly but don’t make a move for their forks.
“Your boyfriend…” Brendon echoes.
She smiles. “Yeah, Alex. He-”
“Wait,” he says, holding a palm up. “Your boyfriend is Alex Greenwald?”
Her smile falters a little. “How do you know who Alex is?”
“Jon showed us pictures of Ross coming out of your boyfriend’s restaurant. And then I checked his file, and it says they dated back in 2001,” Brendon explains.
“Oh,” she says softly. “I didn’t realize you’d figured out that much. Ryan comes into the restaurant every day and never orders anything. He’ll eat only if Alex forces him to. He always comes and goes through the back, but if there’s a huge truck in the alleyway, he’s forced to go in through the front. Probably how he got spotted.” There is a pause. “Anyway, Ryan introduced us last year, said he thought I’d be good for Alex.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird, Ross setting you up with an old boyfriend?” Brendon asks.
Greta shakes her head. “No. I mean, Ryan is the only guy Alex has ever been with. You’ve seen Ryan’s picture. I don’t exactly blame Alex for going bi-curious for him. Plus, they were just teenagers, and with the all-boy environment they had in high school, things happen. Anyway, in the end, Alex realized the whole sex-with-guys thing wasn’t for him, and now, they’re like brothers. Which gets me back to my original point.”
“Ah, yes,” Brendon says, “Ross is living at your boyfriend’s house.”
“Right,” Greta says.
“You don’t think Alex will be mad that you’re telling me all this?”
She sighs. “Of course, he’ll be mad. But… one of my superiors is dead. Dead. And it’s my job…”
Brendon can tell she’d been wrestling with this for a few hours now. “Hey, hey,” he says soothingly to her over the noise of the restaurant, taking her hand briefly again. “It’s okay. You’re doing the right thing.”
Greta nods. “I’ll tell you where his house is, but you guys better not rush in there with the extraction. You have to have a damn good plan because you really can’t be underestimating Ryan. You need to catch him off guard.”
“Off guard, right,” Brendon mumbles as he takes out his phone. He quickly texts Jon. Any chance we can make tomorrow’s meeting earlier?
“Okay,” Greta says, picking up her fork finally. “We should eat. I think our food is getting cold.”
Just as Brendon nods, his phone buzzes, indicating an answer from Jon. 0900 hours then. I’ll tell Spencer. He smiles to himself, and finally, Brendon picks up his own fork and starts eating.
---------------
Brendon had barely gotten enough sleep, but it hardly matters since he is buzzing with energy. He has the small remote in his hand, which is shaking ever so slightly from excitement. A picture of a large, three-story home pops up onto the plasma screen, and Jon and Spencer are waiting for an explanation.
“This,” Brendon says as he gestures to the screen, “is the Malibu home of a Mr. Alexander Greenwald. Our mark, Ryan Ross, has been living here since its purchase three months ago. This is where he is hiding.”
A click of a button and the picture has turned into a virtual representation. Another click and each of the three floors have split off and turned over on its side, revealing floor plans for each story. A final click and the third floor becomes enlarged, taking up most of the screen.
“Ross has the whole third floor to himself, with the large, west-facing room as his bedroom. Greenwald’s bedroom is on the second floor, also west-facing. It seems they both enjoy the ocean view,” Brendon comments.
“How did you find out all of this?” Spencer asks. “I’ve been wracking my brain for a clue and got nothing.”
“You know, I thought long and hard about where I would go to hide. And then through simple deduction-”
“Brendon,” Jon says, a tone of warning mixed with amusement in his voice.
He sighs. “Greta told me. But I figured out that Ross was staying with Greenwald before she even said anything. Swear.”
“How does Greta know anything?” Spencer asks, completely ignoring the second part of that.
“She saw that I had Ross’s file,” Brendon answers, and Jon gives him a look. “And Alex Greenwald is her boyfriend, and she is friends with Ryan Ross.”
Jon speaks up, “And she just gave you all this information?”
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “I trust her. She was really distraught about Mr. Beckett’s death and said it was her job to come forward.”
“So do you have a plan?” Spencer asks, his pen poised over his legal pad, ready to take notes.
Brendon smiles. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
--------------------
“I always feel like such a doofus in these get-ups,” Spencer grumbles, and the sound of Jon’s laughter floods their ears. He isn’t right next to them, as one would think, but in the van three stories down and across the street. The van is yellow and has “Gio’s House Painters” written in large, curvy letters on the side, but instead of cans of paint and ladders in the back, there is a couple of million dollars’ worth of computer and surveillance equipment.
“I like it, even though white isn’t exactly my color,” Brendon responds, gesturing to the jumpsuit he has on and brushing nonexistent dirt off it. “Besides, it’d be far more conspicuous if we were in our usual black on black with black ski masks. Black may be more slimming, but we can’t draw attention to ourselves.
Brendon’s smirk lets Spencer know that he is teasing. “Jerk,” Spencer mutters and goes back to setting up the equipment. “So why exactly does this take two of us? Don’t you want to go back to the van and hang out with Jon?”
“Now, Spencer,” Jon says, his voice coming in clear, “you know you needed him to disarm the security system. Plus he’s your lookout from up there like I’m your lookout down here.”
Spencer rolls his eyes, even though Jon obviously can’t see. “Thank you, boss man. I knew that,” he says as he uncovers the equipment he is about to use. “Now, let me do my job so I feel like I’m here for a reason.”
“You got it,” Brendon says as he playfully salutes Spencer. Brendon adjusts next to Spencer, lying as flat on his stomach as he can against the roof of the house where they are, and he lifts the binoculars to his eyes, focusing on the third floor of the house next door.
They had already checked the restaurant, and they’d felt that Greenwald would continue to be there for at least a couple more hours since it was just at the height of lunch when they were there. Jon, who had been staking out the Greenwald residence since early that morning, had reported Ross leaving at seven AM, and Greenwald’s next-door neighbors had cleared from the house at nine. It only took Brendon a minute to disarm the “state of the art” security system, and the two broke in and climbed the roof with the black bag carrying their measuring device. They will have to come back later that night; it will definitely be more difficult to break in when people are home, but it always works out so none of them are too worried.
Spencer himself adjusts so that he is lying as flat as he can on his stomach as well, and props up the measuring device on the tiny tripod against his face. He looks through the eyepiece and swings the device until he is looking at the correct window. He takes aim carefully, using the crosshairs as a guide, and presses a button three times to get an accurate distance measurement. Then, Spencer lifts the device and hands it to Brendon to put away while he lays down a black X made of tape where the device had stood.
“Well, that’s done,” Spencer says as Brendon zips up the black bag. They make their way down the side of the house to the ladder they brought with them (being “house painters” and all). They descend it to the third story balcony of the master bedroom, and Spencer takes it with him inside the sliding glass door. Brendon closes it behind Spencer and locks it, smoothing out the curtains so they look undisturbed. They make their way swiftly and carefully through the house, making sure not to leave a trace of anything anywhere. They walk out through the back door, and Spencer waits as Brendon arms the security system again. The device he uses flashes green once, and Brendon removes it quickly and stows it in his pocket. They have two minutes to get out of the backyard, and it only takes them one to do so and reach the yellow van across the street.
Spencer opens the back of the van and Jon says, “Hiya!” with a grin that makes Spencer laugh as he helps pull in the ladder they used and takes the black bag from Brendon. Then Brendon goes around to the passenger seat while Spencer goes to drive, and when he looks back, Brendon sees Jon already with the measuring device. He takes out the memory card and sticks it in the reader in front of him, and Brendon can see the pictures and measurements upload onto the computer in the van.
“Great,” Jon mutters to himself. He looks to his left and sees Brendon watching him, so Jon gestures to the screen. “So you were right. There’s a tree in the way of your line of sight. You’ll need to use the crossbow that Patrick has been working on.”
“I was thinking,” Brendon says, pointing to the tree on the screen, “if we get the arrow to go around this limb over here, it’ll provide a good angle for us to just zip down to the window. That way we’ll only need to climb the rope to the tree instead of all the way across.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Spencer pipes up. “It’ll be easier on both of us.”
Jon nods his assent. “Alright, sounds like we’ve got a plan. We’ll start the extraction at 0300 hours tomorrow. When we get back to FBR420, you two go home and get some rest. We need you awake for your mission.”
“Oh, we’ll be ready,” Spencer says, smirking, as he glances at Brendon, who winks back.
--------------
Breaking in the second time isn’t as easy. First of all, there are actual people in this house while it is going on. Then, there’s the pesky thing of not being able to bring a ladder inside; they’re not house painters anymore. But Brendon does pretty well with a grappling hook, and the shoes he has on are made for climbing anyway.
Brendon is sure that he and Spencer blend well into the night. The two are wearing tight, form-fitting outfits of all black. They have specially made shoes (developed and tested by Patrick, of course) that were like climbing shoes except better since they also mute the agent’s footsteps so it’s as if they are walking on air and not someone’s roof. To complete their outfits, the two agents wear black ski masks, and lightweight night vision goggles are affixed to a catch built onto them.
Once the two are at the black X on the roof, Brendon prostrates himself down to where Spencer had been the day before, and Spencer does the same beside him, removing the bag from his back. From it, he pulls the crossbow out and hands it gingerly over to Brendon, who powers it on. He draws the path he needs the arrow to take (to the right a little, up and around, then to the left a little). Next, he enters the distance Spencer had measured out, and then he’s ready.
Spencer nods at him, and if they didn’t have to be absolutely silent right then, Brendon knows Spencer would’ve said something along the lines of “Do it.”
He takes aim, breathes in deep, and on the exhale, he shoots.
The arrow with the rope attached to it soars in the air, veers off to the right, just a bit, then goes up and around to wrap the rope around the tree limb, then to the left until it lodges itself into the wood just above the window they had been aiming for. As Brendon removes the other end of the rope from the crossbow, Spencer goes about to find the sturdiest shingle nearby to lodge the special stake they brought to tie the end of the rope to. He finally finds one he is satisfied with, and Spencer hooks the stake underneath it. Then he takes the rope from Brendon and ties a tight knot that Boy Scouts would be proud of. Spencer checks the rope one more time to make sure it is taut and secure enough to hold both him and Brendon.
Spencer points to himself, meaning that he will go first, and he crawls to the edge of the roof without hesitation. He takes a hold of the rope and lets the top of his foot find it so that all he has to do is keep his balance is lay across it and pull himself forward toward the tree, allowing his foot to drag against the rope behind him. The distance really isn’t that far.
Brendon watches with bated breath as Spencer makes his way slowly to the tree limb and releases it when both of Spencer’s feet are on the branch. Then he watches Spencer take out a device and clip it onto the section of rope between the tree and Greenwald’s house, turning it into a zip line, and Spencer is only swinging in the air for a few seconds before he lands safely on the balcony underneath the arrow.
Then it is Brendon’s turn, as he shoulders the bag with the crossbow. Brendon lives for this; it’s why he became an agent. He loves doing dangerous stuff like using only a rope to go from house to house and getting paid by the US government to do it. He makes it to the tree before he knows it, and then he zips to the balcony quickly, just as Spencer had. Then it is time to clean up their mess. He tugs on the rope, and he tries to remember the sequence that Patrick had taught him. Up, up, clockwise, down, right, up…
Finally, the stake that had been all that was keeping Spencer, Brendon, and the rope from moving slips easily from the shingle, and the rope falls down into the yard below. Brendon starts to pull it up, wrapping it in a coil around his hand and elbow, as Spencer dislodges the arrow from above the window. When they have retrieved all of the rope, they store it in Spencer’s bag. Now, they wait. It should be any second now.
All of sudden, the silence is broken by Jon’s voice coming in through their earpieces. “Security system is down. Feel free to enter Greenwald residence,” whispers Jon.
Brendon picks the lock, as the “window” turns out to be a couple of French doors that lead out to the balcony. It’s easy enough, with a pocket set of tiny tools. The door creaks open a little, and the two agents slip into the house.
Spencer points down the hall, waits a second, and then heads for Ross’s office. Greta had told Brendon that, if there were any evidence, his office would be the place to check. Now for the extraction.
Brendon moves down to the door Greta had told him about. The first one by the stairs is the door to Ross’s bedroom. If all went according to plan, Ross would be asleep in bed, and Brendon would sneak up to him and knock him out with a sophisticated version of chloroform (also developed by Patrick) so that he and Spencer can bring Ross in without a fuss.
He checks the door tentatively, and it’s unlocked so he opens it only enough to slip in. When he gets in, he has enough time to note the lump on the right side of the bed that must be Ross; he is asleep in bed, just like they planned. He reaches in his pocket for the vile of liquid and the cloth, and he spills it carefully as he walks noiselessly up to the bed. He even has enough time to take note of the spaciousness of the room, almost as big as Brendon’s whole condo.
When Brendon gets to the edge of the bed, he takes a deep breath as he grasps the covers, and he knows he only has a second after he pulls them down to knock Ross out. He counts 1, 2, 3 in his head and tugs…
…And all he finds are pillows and blankets.
“What the…?” Brendon whispers, but before he can finish his thought, he feels a tap, tap, tap on his shoulder.
When his head whips around, he has a second to look through his night vision goggles, and he distinctly sees a smirk before it is lights out completely, his body slumping to the floor after only one blow.
Part Two
Masterpost
Brendon is running.
He can feel that stitch in his side start to develop, and for it to happen after all that training and experience, it means he’s been running hard and fast and for quite a while. But then there’s adrenaline, too, and that’s going through his system and helping him focus and power through.
“Brendon, meet me at location four. Do you copy?” Spencer’s voice sounds through his ear, clear, as if he was standing right next to him instead of outside the building, twenty floors down. Brendon has to get down there fast.
He can still hear his pursuer behind him. It’s faint, but he’s still there. Brendon thought he took out all the security guards, but apparently, he’d overlooked one. Stupid.
“Spencer, I copy.” He gets to the end of the hallway and presses the up button for the elevator and sees that the one on the right is heading his way. He doesn’t waste too much time as he bursts through the door to the stairwell and heads down one floor, jumping three stairs at a time.
“Spencer,” he says again, as he makes it through the door, “manually override the elevator doors, nineteenth floor, right elevator.” Another second and the doors open to reveal an elevator cable.
Brendon steps to the edge and looks up to see the elevator car waiting above him for the person who called it but never boarded. He flips a small switch on one of the gloves he has on, and his fingertips start to cool. He leaps out and grabs the cable just as his pursuer bursts out of the stairwell door, and Brendon says, “Spencer, elevator doors, now!”
He hangs for a second almost twenty stories above the ground as the doors close, takes a breath, and flips another switch on his glove, causing the traction setting to switch off and allowing Brendon to zip down the elevator cable. The cool setting he’d turned on earlier helps to counteract the friction, and as the air rushes past him while he steadily approaches the ground, Brendon thinks he ought to thank Patrick for yet another fine invention.
Brendon sees the ground coming close and flips the traction switch again to slow himself down. He hops off and says, “Spencer, first floor elevator doors.” They open, and Brendon climbs out quickly while pulling his mask back on. He jogs past the security guards at the station, still completely passed out from earlier, and out the front doors to location four.
“Exiting building. Forty-five seconds.” Brendon finds the black van easily, jogs up to it, and hops in next to Spencer.
“Ready?” Spencer asks.
Brendon nods after he pulls off his mask. “Can I do it?”
Spencer scoffs. “Pyro,” he says, but he hands the trigger to Brendon anyway. With a press of a button, a loud boom is heard from the twentieth floor, the control room to be exact.
“Got the files?” Spencer asks as he drives away on the main road like a bomb did not just go off.
“What kind of agent do you think I am?” Brendon says as he pulls several file folders out from under his shirt.
Spencer gives him a look. “A forgetful one.”
“God, that was one time.”
“Jeez, Bren, calm down.” Spencer can sense when his partner shifts into whining mode. “I’m just checking.”
Spencer turns a dial, and the van is filled with Metallica as they head back to headquarters. The two sing along to the song blasting through the speakers (“Nomad, vagabond, call me what you will!”), getting so far into it that they’re air-guitaring and air-drumming to the music.
--------------
Brendon’s shoulder is cold due to the slipping of his sheets and his own nudity. That’s not what woke him from his slumber though. And it’s not his alarm clock since that’s not due to sound for another two hours. It’s not the body of a beautiful, equally naked man stirring next to him since Brendon hasn’t slept with anyone in months; he’s just too busy with work sometimes. It’s not some nightmare where Brendon is running for his life away from aliens with three heads and blaster guns.
It’s his phone.
He groans as he reaches for it on the sleek glass nightstand by his bed. “Humph-ello?” Brendon mumbles into the receiver.
“Brendon, it’s Jon.” Brendon’s eyes fly open. He shouldn’t be getting a call from him at this time. He’s not due at the office for another five and a half hours.
Brendon clears his throat, hoping it would clear away the sleep in his voice. “Good morning, sir.”
Jon sighs. “Enough with the formalities, Brendon. Now is not the time. You’re aware of the early hour, I’m sure, so you must realize that we have an emergency. I need you at headquarters in one hour. You will be briefed as soon as you and Spencer both arrive.”
“Yes, sir.” Brendon coughs. “I mean, Jon.”
Brendon pulls the simple black sheets away from his naked body as he shuts off his alarm since it’s useless to him now. He was supposed to get up at six, not four. There goes his early morning run and breakfast at the diner. Brendon’s day has started ahead of schedule.
He gets up from the bed, his feet cold against the hardwood floors of his sparse bedroom as he walks into his bathroom and straight into his shower to turn it on. The shower doors are clear glass, but they soon fog up, letting Brendon know it’s hot enough. The shock of water wakes him up a little more. Dammit, he’d only gotten two hours of sleep at best. It must be important if they’re waking him up so early after having completed a mission for them just a few short hours ago. Brendon puts a hand out so that he’s leaning against the shower wall, letting the water roll off his body.
After only five minutes in the shower - he has to be at work in one hour - Brendon gets out, drying himself as quickly as possible and wrapping the towel around his waist. He grabs his toothbrush and applies a little toothpaste so that he can brush his teeth while picking out what he’s going to wear.
Brendon opens the door to his walk-in, toothbrush poking out of his mouth, and decides on a sleek charcoal tailored suit, a black-, white-, and pink-striped tie, argyle socks (also with a little pink in it), and black dress shoes. He feels that, even with a strict dress code, where he does have room for creativity, he should exploit it.
After getting dressed, he sees that he only has twenty minutes to get to the office, so he grabs his keys from the key hook by the door. He completely bypasses the coffeemaker and decides that if he does not want to be too late, he should skip his coffee, even though it’s usually a bad idea to do so.
He’s already sensing the long day ahead of him.
--------------
Brendon’s silver car is one of a very few out on the road at just shy of five in the morning. He easily navigates the streets he drives every day and pulls into the parking garage next to a restaurant, the outdoor seating still pushed up against the building, going through to the “Monthly Access” section with the wave of a card. Though there are plenty of spaces on the first floor, Brendon drives down, down, down to the bottom level, which is curiously filled with cars. He thinks that they should be more careful, but it’s early and Brendon could be assed to park farther away so he assumes that that’s everyone else’s logic.
He presses the up button and the elevator dings and opens. He walks in and the elevator starts to move up, but Brendon whips out a key and inserts it into the keyhole supposedly there for maintenance. He turns it and pulls down to reveal a keypad with a speaker. He types in the code (0826) and an electronic, feminine voice speaks, “Voice identification.”
“Brendon Urie,” he says, and the elevator immediately reverses its route to go down, even though he is supposedly on the bottom level. He rides the elevator as he stifles a yawn, and the doors finally open.
“Welcome, Agent Urie,” the voice says as he steps out into the headquarters of FBR420, or “the office” as Brendon likes to call it. He likes to think he’s somewhat normal.
Though there are quite a few people in at the moment, more than there would have been at this time on a normal day, it’s still not the full staff of agents and employees. But he sees Cash, one of the newer agents, waiting for him in the lobby. “Ah, Agent Urie,” he says.
“Brendon,” he corrects. He understands why Jon corrects him all the time; even though he’s higher in rank than Cash, he doesn’t exactly like someone he considers a friend being so formal.
“Right, Brendon,” Cash says uncomfortably. Brendon has to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He’s still kind of new. “Mr. Walker and Agent Smith are in the conference room already. You were supposed to be in-”
“Five minutes ago, I know. Thanks, man.” Brendon claps him on the back. “I guess I better go see what all this is about.”
Cash nods. “Guess so. Good luck, Brendon.”
When Brendon enters the conference room, he notices three things. The first is Spencer hunched over a cup of coffee and clinging to it like his life depended on it. The second is Jon’s red eyes. The third is Mr. Wentz on the large plasma screen. Shit, they’re bringing in the big guns. And what’s worse is Brendon is late.
“Sorry, I’m-” Brendon begins but is interrupted by Mr. Wentz on the screen.
“It’s okay, Agent Urie. Have a seat.” Brendon does so, shaking away the feeling that there is something off about the TV screen. Spencer next to him takes a large gulp of his coffee, and Brendon starts to wonder when he can get some when Jon surprisingly brings him a mug with a tired smile.
“Alright,” Mr. Wentz continues, “we’re all here. Now, Agent Smith, Agent Urie, what Mr. Walker and I are about to tell you is classified. Not everyone knows, at least not yet, and we have to keep it that way for the time being.”
“Yes, sir,” both he and Spencer say to the video screen.
“Good,” Mr. Wentz says. “Now it is my regret to inform you that Mr. Beckett has been murdered.”
Spencer gasps next to him, and Brendon’s mouth drops open. “In his office, no less, some time between 2330 hours last night and 0100 hours this morning.” On the screen next to Mr. Wentz’s screen, a fairly graphic picture of a bleeding slender man on the floor comes up, and had none of the men in the room been used to such gruesomeness, they would have turned away immediately. Still, since it is a picture of someone they all knew, it is quite difficult to stomach. To distract himself, Brendon looks away and takes a sip of his coffee, finding that Jon has put in the right amount of sugar and milk (milk, not cream) that he likes.
“Agent Urie,” Brendon’s eyes swing back to the screen, “Agent Smith, this is an internal investigation. Since only a select few of the CIA know of this operation’s existence, it is only acceptable for a team of our own agents to bring Mr. Beckett’s killer in. You two are the most trustworthy for a number of reasons.” Brendon and Spencer glance at each other briefly, and then their eyes are back at the screen.
“First of all, you have the lowest percentage of failed missions, now that… well,” Wentz says, frowning, and Brendon wonders what the end of that sentence was supposed to be. “Also, both of your whereabouts are accounted for since you had just completed a mission for us and were debriefed by Mr. Walker here.” To Brendon’s left, Jon nods. “Lastly, we needed one of Walker’s teams, and you two were the ones he recommended.”
“Sir,” Spencer pipes up, “why one of Mr. Walker’s teams?”
“Well, we could not use one of Mr. Beckett’s teams. His agents would be more… emotional, and therefore, more likely to make mistakes. We can’t risk it, plus they should be given a bit of time to grieve. And Mr. Saporta is… Well, he and Mr. Beckett were very close friends, and he’s very distraught right now,” explains Wentz.
“It’s understandable,” Jon comments.
“Now, gentlemen. Here is your objective. Bring this man in, preferably alive.” The pictures on the screen switch, and the men in the room are met with several pictures of a thin man. Their target, it seems, has brown wavy hair, curling more at the nape of the neck. His face makes him seem young, much younger than Brendon or Spencer, though the sharpness of his jaw line and the hint of stubble on his countenance make Brendon question this instinct.
The first couple of pictures feature their suspect in crisp designer suits and expensive sunglasses. If he were a hitman, he’d have to be pretty damn good to be able to afford all that. But the last of the pictures is what draws Brendon’s attention, being similar to the one Brendon had had taken of himself when he joined the agency two years ago.
He frowns, confused, as Spencer voices Brendon’s own thoughts aloud. “He’s CIA?”
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Wentz says from the smaller plasma screen to the right as the feed has moved to better showcase the pictures of their mark, “meet George Ryan Ross, age twenty-four, former FBR420 agent. He went by his middle name for as long as he’d been with us.”
Something inside Brendon’s head clicks. Greta really does give him the best gossip. “Wait,” Brendon says, unable to help himself, “isn’t he the guy who gave up his partner a few months ago?”
Brendon’s eyes flick over to Jon, who gives him a look that tells him he needs to be shutting up soon. Interrupting Mr. Wentz during a briefing was definitely not allowed.
“Agent Urie, I was getting to that,” Mr. Wentz says, tone slightly annoyed.
“Now, Agent Ross was arguably the most talented agent we had while he was part of the CIA. He has an incredibly high IQ, tested extremely well during training, and is remarkably well versed in different types of hand-to-hand combat.”
Brendon has to keep himself from huffing too loudly. Dammit, he had all those things. So did everyone else at the agency; that was the point.
“Considering the pool of elite individuals in FBR420 that he’s being compared to, saying that he was one of our best and brightest really means something.”
What was so special about this guy anyway? Brendon couldn’t think of much. Judging from the pictures, he looks quite breakable. Trying to size this guy up begins to get downright distracting, however, when Brendon’s eyes roam over the man’s mouth, slightly open and just a tad bitable. A nudge to his arm from Spencer brings him back to focusing on their mission. Right, their mission. Their mark.
“Four months ago,” Mr. Wentz says, continuing his explanation, “Agent Ross was captured on mission in North Korea. He was tortured for days and then, amazingly enough, let go.” Pictures of Ross shirtless, bruised, battered, and cut up flash on the screen. “It turned out that his partner, Agent Wilson, had been taken from their safe house, and a week later, his body was found in a top secret CIA raid conducted by other FBR420 agents.” The pictures switch to those of another man, obviously having been dead for several days and lying on a dirty concrete floor, and then to several of a body bag.
“It was then our belief that Ross gave up his partner under torture, despite the fact that he has been trained extensively to handle that exact situation as you all know. Ross had insisted that he hadn’t, but unfortunately, he’s also a trained liar and the evidence was just against him.
The pictures switch again to show Mr. Beckett, dead in his office. “Mr. Beckett was Ross and Wilson’s handler, the one who ultimately decided to disavow and dismiss him. There, gentlemen, is the motive: revenge.”
Brendon blinks and turns to look at Spencer, who just stares at the screens, face unreadable. Jeez, this guy is some kind of bastard, Brendon thinks. He can’t even begin to think about giving up Spencer to die and murdering Jon. Brendon will really enjoy taking this guy down, no matter how good-looking he appears to be. This guy doesn’t deserve to have ever been a part of the agency.
Mr. Wentz’s tone shifts. “Now, Mr. Walker, it is up to you to direct your team further on whatever course you would like them to take to achieve their objective. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, sir,” the three men in the room reply automatically, and the feed of Mr. Wentz at his desk in God-knows-where switches off.
There’s a loud sigh, and Brendon realizes that it collectively came from all three of them. He takes a large gulp of his coffee, waiting to feel energized and alert like he always does when given a mission, but it doesn’t fully come. This time, it’s not just a mission. This time, it feels pretty personal.
“So where do we start?” Spencer asks, and Brendon’s gaze moves to look at him and follows Spencer’s own towards Jon.
“Guys,” Jon says, “we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. While waiting for you two to show up, I did some checking, normal stuff, you know. The basics.”
“And?” Brendon asks, though he’s certain it’s not exactly awesome news.
“And Ryan Ross is going to be a little difficult to track down. He was one of our agents after all, so he knows how to cover his tracks. As soon as he was dismissed from the agency, he emptied all of his accounts, which had held a substantial amount. He was rich, had inherited a ton of money when his tycoon father died of a heart attack, and we don’t know where any of his money went, probably in some numbered Swiss bank account. He’d stopped using his real name publicly long ago for such things, and he hasn’t gone by any of his former aliases recently. He sold all of his property: his home, his father’s home, his cars, stocks, bonds. His paper trail ended three months ago.”
Damn, Brendon thinks. He’s good, must’ve been planning to disappear for a while.
“I do have some good news though,” Jon says, sounding slightly optimistic. He walks over to the console by the TVs and inserts a flash drive. He grabs a tiny remote and presses a button, causing several grainy pictures, obviously from security cameras, to come up. Upon closer inspection, they appear to be of Ross, and the timestamps on the bottom show that they’re fairly recent.
“He has been spotted several places. A few times in New York, once in Lisbon, but for the most part, all other sightings, though relatively few, have been in or around Los Angeles, mostly the west side. It appears that he hadn’t left the city after being dismissed as we’d originally thought,” Jon explains.
“What makes you think he’s still in LA?” Spencer asks as he takes down notes on a yellow legal pad. “Mr. Beckett was killed several hours ago. He could be long gone by now.”
Jon shakes his head. “He knows that we’re monitoring LAX, Burbank Airport, even Van Nuys in case he had a private plane ready. Protocol, you know? He may have driven to Vegas, San Diego, maybe even San Francisco, but it makes a lot more sense to hide in a city of thirteen million people until everyone’s calmed down and given up looking.”
“Alright,” Brendon says, mostly to get himself to focus, to think, “we need to find him. Where exactly has he been spotted?”
“A couple of times in Calabasas, once in Santa Monica at a store on Third St., and three times in a vegan restaurant in Malibu,” Jon answers. “It’s not much to go on. He is wealthy enough to live in these areas comfortably, but he could definitely live elsewhere anyway.”
“Yeah, well, it’s something,” Brendon responds.
Spencer sighs. “I guess we’ve got some work ahead of us.”
“I already had Ross’s file Xeroxed for you guys to go over.” Jon walks over to a side table, picks up two fairly thick manila folders, and hands Spencer and Brendon each a copy. “When we have a lead, we’ll go from there and devise a plan.” The tone of Jon’s voice suggests that the briefing will soon come to a close.
“It is now six AM,” he continues. “In a few hours, the rest of the agents and staff members that are not on mission will be coming in, and Mr. Saporta and I are charged with informing them of Mr. Beckett’s death. I highly suggest that the two of you leave for the day and work from home.” Jon walks over and places a hand on each of their shoulders, offering a tired half-smile. “We called you two in quite early, and you must get some sleep. Plus, I’m guessing FBR420 will be a difficult place to concentrate in when everyone finds out, what with all the emotions and gossip flooding the atmosphere.”
“Okay, Jon,” Spencer mumbles, rubbing his eyes again.
“Yeah, alright,” Brendon agrees.
“You two are good to go,” Jon says with a final pat and then goes for the door, Spencer and Brendon getting up and following.
When they exit the conference room, the agents in the office are blatantly staring, trying to examine their faces and guess what exactly is going on. Spencer tiredly heads straight for the elevator while Jon goes down a hallway in the direction of his office. Brendon is about to leave also, but he spots a hint of a Hawaiian shirt among the suits and heads for the tech end of the large room, shifting the large folder in his hand so that he doesn’t drop it and send pages flying.
“Hey, Patrick,” Brendon says, clapping the bespectacled man on the back. “What are you up to?”
The man jumps, and his Hawaiian shirt flaps open a little when he does so, revealing a plain white undershirt. As Brendon eyes the cargo shorts, sandals with socks, and trucker cap, he entertains the thought that only a genius like Patrick could get away with coming to work in such attire. The man is quite the character.
“Jesus, Brendon,” Patrick gasps, pushing his glasses up with his knuckle. As he talks, he gestures wildly. “How many times have I told you not to do that? Who knows what kind of dangerous chemical I could be handling or what expensive equipment I might be working on? Be more careful, man.”
Brendon shrugs innocently. “Sorry,” he mutters as he sets down Ross’s file onto Patrick’s desk. “I just wanted to tell you how awesome those gloves you gave me are. They turned out to be pretty useful last night.”
Patrick grins proudly, seemingly having forgotten his agitation from just a moment ago. “Really? Sweet! The traction setting worked alright, did it?”
“Oh, totally,” Brendon answers, nodding. “And the cooling thing was a nice touch.”
“Well, I’m glad you liked it.”
“What are you working on now?” Brendon asks, looking over Patrick’s shoulder curiously.
Patrick says excitedly and grabs a pot of what appears to be face cream. “This.”
“Moisturizer,” Brendon deadpans.
Patrick laughs. “Uh, no! This stuff is the key to making any agent a master of disguise.”
He picks up a glass rod and dips it into the lotion, and when he holds it up to Brendon, right by his nose, Brendon can just about make out the sparkles. “Glitter lotion?”
“I thought you were supposed to be smart, Urie. This, my friend, contains millions and millions of teeny, tiny, microscopic computers. They communicate to each other via local signal to judge the topography of a person’s face and together reflect back the face of another person!”
Brendon blinks. “So…”
“So if you put this on, you can look like anyone. Better than a mask! You just need a DNA sample to pre-program it, again via signal, and they run on solar power. Stick the pot in the sun for an hour, and you’re good for half a night. The lotion won’t melt either. I call it New Face Cream.”
Brendon blinks once more, and then he understands exactly how cool Patrick’s invention is. “Can I try it out?!” he asks excitedly.
Patrick frowns and opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut off by a sweet, feminine voice a few feet away. “He won’t let anyone near that thing. I already tried.”
Brendon notes how lovely Greta is looking this morning, though he’s always thought she was never short of gorgeous-looking. She must have woken up at an even ungodlier hour than Brendon had, but her blond curls fall in the right places, pushed away from her face by the headset she has on, and her skin glows against the soft blue of her shirtdress despite that fact.
“Greta! What are you hacking into today?” Brendon asks her as he goes over to her chair to give her a quick hug.
“Nothing as of yet,” she answers, pulling back. “I’m only on call in case Siska and Carden can’t take care of it themselves. I can’t figure out why Mr. Beckett hasn’t come by to pester me though. Always the one to look over my shoulder, but not this morning. Maybe it’s too early.”
Pre-training Brendon would’ve definitely flinched at her words. Instead, he tries to steer the conversation away from the topic of Mr. Beckett. He can’t talk about it, but Greta will know the truth soon enough anyway.
“Yeah, maybe. But seriously, why won’t Patrick let anyone try out the New Face Cream?”
Greta is about to answer when Patrick says, “I can hear you. And I won’t let anyone try it out because it’s still in its testing phase. It’s closed off to all agents right now except under extreme cases that need to be authorized by Mr. Wentz himself.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brendon says dismissively. “Well, what do you have that I can play with?”
“They’re not toys,” Patrick says in a serious tone, and Brendon rolls his eyes. “But the crossbow with programmable arrows I invented just got out of the testing phase and is now in beta. Come with me and I’ll show you.”
Brendon follows Patrick down a spiral staircase to his lab, waving to Greta as she plays around with a bit of code while waiting to hear from the team on mission. The two stop at a cart set up in front of a target and other obstacles. Patrick then bends down and comes back up holding a crossbow. On the side of it are a screen and a number pad, and when Patrick places it in Brendon’s arms and powers it on, he finds that it is surprisingly light.
“Alright so what you do is take the stylus,” he says as he unclips what looks like a pen from the underside of the crossbow, “and draw the path you want the arrow to take on the touch screen.” Patrick draws a zigzag pattern with the stylus. “Then enter the approximate distance it will travel on the key pad.” He punches some numbers and taps the word “meters” on the touch screen with the stylus. “Now aim and shoot.”
Standing on the masking tape X on the floor, Brendon notices that, from his position, several of the obstacles Patrick set up in front of the target are very much in the way. Still, he trusts Patrick so he takes aim anyway and shoots. Remarkably, the arrow follows the exact path Patrick has drawn, going completely around each of the obstacles and ending up right at the bull’s-eye of the target.
“Holy shit! That’s awesome!” Brendon says excitedly. “Fuck line-of-sight, man.”
“Ahem, Brendon.”
Brendon whips around, eyes wide and still holding the crossbow. “Mr. Walker! I mean, Jon.”
“Brendon, don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks with a half amused, half exasperated tone.
“I… Yes. Yes, I do. Sorry, uh…” Brendon hands Patrick the crossbow and mutters, “Thanks.”
He walks quickly, passing Jon at the bottom of the spiral staircase, and as he ascends it, he senses Jon close behind. When they get back up to the office, Brendon picks up the folder from Patrick’s desk and says goodbye to Greta before heading towards the elevator. Jon is still behind him, and Brendon turns to face him only when he pushes the button to call the elevator.
“Remember, Brendon. Get some rest before you tackle this thing.” Jon nods at the folder. “Spencer, I know, won’t listen to me. The guy is probably going to pore over them until he passes out face first in the file,” he says, smiling easily. “But you sleep. We need your mind sharp.”
Brendon nods just as the elevator bell dings. “Okay, Jon,” he says, as he walks in.
Jon holds the elevator door back. “You’re due in tomorrow at 1700 hours unless told otherwise. See you then,” he says smiling tiredly at Brendon. Then he steps back, and the doors close.
Brendon rubs the bridge of his nose as the elevator moves up, up, up. He can feel the weight of everything: the tragedy that is Mr. Beckett’s death, the anger towards this stranger, this Ross, that he’s supposed to catch, the lack of sleep, the necessary secrecy among colleagues, the stress of the responsibility he’d just been endowed. It’s a lot to take on, especially at just shy of seven in the morning.
He’s suddenly incredibly thankful of Jon for sending him home.
When Brendon gets to his condo, he plops Ross’s file down on the table by the door along with his keys, wallet, and phone and toes off his shoes. He sighs and slips off his jacket, tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of his couch as he loosens his tie. Eventually, it ends up on the floor next to his coffee table. Then, it is Brendon’s shirt that has to go, unbuttoning it as he walks further through his apartment, and eventually, it lands by the door to the kitchen. In the hallway, his pants fall and pool at his ankles, and he steps out of them so that when he reaches his bedroom door, he’s only in his boxers and socks. Brendon hops a little as he tugs the socks off, and before collapsing fully onto his bed, he pulls down his boxers swiftly because he can’t sleep with them on. It’d be too uncomfortable otherwise.
Brendon groans, letting himself relax further into the comfort of his mattress before lazily pulling his covers, loose and bunched around the side of the bed from not having been made yet, around him. He presses his face into a pillow that he wraps his arms around, and sleep overtakes him quickly, wrapping him in a heavy, dreamless cocoon.
When he wakes up, his eyes slip open easily, and the sunlight sneaking in from behind sloppily shut curtains is bright. He turns his head and sees that it’s two in the afternoon. That’s enough rest, he thinks.
Brendon stretches in bed a little and then slides out of bed. He gives a half-hearted glance to his boxers on the floor and decides to put them on before walking out to grab his stuff from the table by the door. As he looks around his apartment at his clothes strewn about, he thinks with a soft chuckle that, if someone were to walk in, they’d think that Brendon was definitely not alone and that something fun and dirty happened here. He’ll pick up his clothes later.
First, he goes into the kitchen to make a sandwich since he’s starving. Then he goes out and grabs his phone and Ross’s folder from the table and takes them with him to the living room so that he has room to work. He takes a seat on the couch, still just in his boxers, and takes a huge bite out of his sandwich before flipping open the file.
The first thing he sees is a copy of Ryan Ross’s picture from when he was in the CIA. Brendon’s eyes sweep over the picture, focusing on and analyzing the man’s creamy complexion, his sharply defined jaw. Without the sunglasses, his eyes are a shockingly light brown, contrasting with Brendon’s own dark chocolate eyes. In a word, handsome.
It’s only then that Brendon remembers, and the flash of the scene his memory gives him takes over. He’d seen him once around the office, talking with Greta at her station next to Patrick’s and making her laugh. He had made a mental note at the time to ask her about him. He thought he was cute, had a nice smile. But then Jon had called Spencer and him in for a mission, and it completely slipped his mind, what with having to go to Chile to dismantle a terrorist unit and all. Brendon grabs a pen and a pad of paper from the coffee table and makes a note to have a talk with her. Maybe they knew each other, and she could give him a little insight.
The next several pages are full of detail after detail of the missions Ross had completed for the CIA, not to mention all of the aliases he had under the agency. Brendon has to admit it. Ross was good. He had been the point man in most of their missions with his partner, Agent Brent Wilson, as backup and technical support. There are several good, almost praising remarks on the reports, and Brendon knows that Mr. Beckett had written all of them, as it is the moderator’s job to fill these out. To him, it seems like Ross was Beckett’s favorite, and the thought only makes Brendon frown even more.
Then comes the section from before Ross entered the CIA. Brendon had forgotten how much the agency knows about its agents’ pasts, but it is all necessary for recruitment purposes. Everything from grade transcripts and test scores (all of them perfect) to newspaper clippings of his father’s heart attack and death when he was fifteen, leading him to be looked after by a distant uncle on his mother’s side. She had died during childbirth. Brendon had expected as much, since he knows that the agency prefers to recruit people with little to no pre-existing ties to facilitate secrecy. Brendon himself was orphaned as a child, and he knows Spencer was too. The difference was that Brendon went from foster home to foster home and had a tough upbringing, while Spencer was sent to boarding school by his grandfather.
Brendon shakes his head to focus his thought back to the task at hand. He’s down to the last couple of pages in the file, and upon inspection, they’re just notes on “miscellaneous” information about Ross, no doubt observations Beckett had made. Brendon almost laughs when he realizes that there is a list (yes, list) of the names of Ross’s former lovers, along with the year or years they went out. This is beyond creepy, and he wonders if Jon had written out a similar list in his own file. When he reads them off, however, he smirks when he notices a shift from clearly feminine names to clearly not feminine names. Alongside this list is a list of band names, most of the classic rock variety, and Brendon finds himself humming in agreement. On the next page, there is a long list of books, and Brendon assumes that they’re Ross’s favorites. He snorts when he sees The Prince among them and mumbles, “Well, Beckett, that should’ve been your first clue.” From the rest on the page, Brendon gathers that Ross prefers brushing with Colgate Total, uses Herbal Essences hair products, takes his coffee with half and half, likes his steak cooked medium rare, and hates tomato slices on his sandwiches and cheeseburgers. Very uninteresting and completely useless.
He shuts the folder with a sigh and tosses it back onto the coffee table. Brendon shivers a little and looks to the window, noting that it is already dark out. He walks to his room, picking up the clothes he’d left on the floor on his way, and throws them all into the hamper in his closet. He grabs a random shirt, dark gray, and pulls it on, and after a little hesitation, he tugs on a pair of light gray jeans. Brendon decides that he should go out and get something to eat since his stomach is grumbling, having long forgotten the sandwich he’d made and eaten earlier. He pulls on a hoodie and chuckles to himself about how now he actually looks like the twenty-three year old he is, maybe even younger. He locates his phone, wallet, and keys and stops at the mirror by the door to run one last hand through his hair before leaving.
Brendon drives around, hoping to figure out what he wants to eat. Italian? No. Mexican? Eh, not really. Vegan? He’d given up that endeavor a year ago when he realized that there really was no good substitute for ch-
He brakes suddenly, and Brendon watches through his rearview mirror as the Range Rover behind him swerves around him and into the lane next to him with a loud honk. A moment later, the driver moves past him, displaying his middle finger angrily, but Brendon isn’t paying attention. His mind is moving quickly, scanning through all he knows like it is one old card catalog in a library and he is definitely in the right drawer. He only needs to find the card, and he’s just thumbing through them all frantically.
What did Jon say? He was spotted in a vegan restaurant in Malibu. Three times. But it seemed Ross wasn’t vegan, since there are notes about how he liked his steak (quite pink, Brendon might add) and that he ate cheeseburgers. Well, a person doesn’t have to be vegan to eat in a vegan restaurant. He could’ve been meeting someone, or he could’ve just liked the food. But three times in the last couple of months he was spotted, meaning there could have been many more times other than those.
Alright, so he didn’t have anything. He’s pissing off a lane full of angry LA drivers for something that Spencer would’ve laughed at him for, would’ve told him that, since he doesn’t have an answer, he’s just trying to get to one in the most convoluted way possible. But Brendon can’t get the nagging feeling that Ross went there for a reason out of his head, so he makes a U-turn and angers even more LA drivers.
On his way back to his apartment, he drives with his left hand, leaving his right free to text Jon. What was the name of the restaurant in Malibu? Brendon knows Jon would know which one he’s talking about.
Within the minute, Jon texts him back. Leaves of Grass.
Okay, Brendon thinks, I’m definitely onto something. The name of the restaurant is the same as a book he distinctly remembers being on Ross’s list of favorites. He remembers because he likes Whitman too. There is some connection that Brendon is not getting, but he is sure that it means something either way.
He finally pulls into his spot in the garage and rushes out of his car to his apartment. Brendon can’t get the door open fast enough, and he runs into his room, which is where he last left his laptop. He finds it under his bed and pulls it out and onto his lap. Brendon opens it, and it comes back on, showing his mail application and Firefox already open. He quickly Googles “Leaves of Grass” with the word “Malibu” after it, so as not to get any Walt Whitman poetry, and the second link is the one for the restaurant’s website, so he clicks on it. The color scheme is earthy, yellows and browns with some green, and the food looks good. Brendon’s stomach growls, as if to say, “Remember me?”
Brendon clicks on the “About” link, and he skims but a couple of sentences until he grins. “A-ha!” he says to himself, as he gets up, leaving the computer on his bed to go out into the living room to get Ross’s file. He opens it on his way back to his bedroom and flips to the second to the last page with the list of lovers. His eyes land on the first male name, Alexander Greenwald. They then flick up to the computer screen where it says clearly in yellow font, “Owner and head chef, Alex Greenwald…” Brendon doesn’t need to know the rest of the sentence.
He can feel it in every nerve of his body that this man is the key to finding Ryan Ross.
All Brendon needs to do now is more research. He can’t go to Jon and Spencer with just this hunch come five o’clock tomorrow. He needs to have something more, something of substance. And he knows Google is not going to cut it. He works for a secret branch of the CIA, for crying out loud.
It’s finally time to call Greta. She is what the agency calls a “swing agent”, since she isn’t part of any one team or under any one moderator, but because she is a specialist, she is at the disposal of any team that needs her expertise the most. FBR420 has several swing agents in employment; Patrick is technically one, though no one, not even Mr. Wentz refers to him by anything but his first name.
In short, Greta, or Agent Salpeter to anyone not in her good graces, is a hacker, the best that Brendon has ever come in contact with. He has seen her take down complex firewalls in a matter of seconds and practically stroll through the most secure servers. Greta has constructed many a virus in her day and is on the very team keeping FBR420’s information safe and protected. She can also find out anything about anyone. Give her a name and a city, and she’ll give you credit card and bank information, confidential patient files from local hospitals, tax histories, criminal records, and real estate histories within the hour.
Brendon needs to find out where this Alex guy lives, and looking in the white pages is not going to cut it (he already tried, unlisted). He needs to bring in the big guns and get as much information on this man as possible before presenting his hunch to Jon and Spencer during their afternoon meeting the next day. Who knows? Maybe there will be another break in the case.
He grabs his phone and dials the number for work, plus a few other numbers to make sure his line is secure. Then he punches in Greta’s extension, but all he hears is ringing on the other end of the line, until it goes to her voicemail. “Call me as soon as you get this. It’s Brendon,” he says hurriedly before hanging up with a sigh. It was nearing eight o’clock, and she’d already been at the office for hours, so he can’t blame her for not being in. Brendon tosses around the idea of going to another one of the hackers, but even though Greta isn’t the only one qualified to help him, she is the only one that he trusts.
Heavy, firm knocking on the door interrupts his thoughts, and Brendon frowns because he certainly had not been expecting anyone. He goes to answer it and is shocked to find none other than Greta standing in his doorway. Her blond curls have gone limp, and her once peaches-and-cream complexion from earlier has turned ashen.
“Greta!” Brendon says, surprised. “I was just trying to call you.”
She gives a tired half-smile. “Yeah? Well, come on. I’m taking you to dinner.”
Brendon shakes his head. “I can’t,” he tells her. “I have so much work to do and-”
“We really need to talk,” she says, interrupting him, and he shuts up at the seriousness of her voice. “Dinner. I insist on it.”
-----------------
On a weeknight, the Beverly Center isn’t as busy as it normally is, so after parking in the garage, they only need to go down the escalator a few floors. At the bottom, a homeless man is leaning against the wall, asking for change or food. Three more steps past him and Greta and Brendon enter the warmly lit Grand Lux Café. They’re seated promptly by the hostess in a comfortable booth. He orders iced tea to drink; she orders wine. Brendon waits for her to start explaining, but she appears to be stalling as best as she can, given how occupied she is with her menu. The waiter comes soon enough with their drinks, takes their orders, collects their menus, and leaves, and Greta is left with no other choice but to start.
“Now, what did you want to talk to me about?” Brendon prompts.
She sighs and bites her lip, looking down once at the napkin in her lap, and then looking up and meeting his eyes. “I saw that you have Ryan Ross’s file,” she confesses. “When you went down to Patrick’s lab and you left it on his desk, I looked.”
“O… kay,” he says slowly, furrowing his brow.
Greta continues, “At first, I was wondering what you were doing with it. His case had been closed for months, and he was long gone from the agency. I was sure you didn’t even know him.” She takes a deep breath. “And then you left for the day, and Mr. Walker and Mr. Saporta came out and…”
Her lip trembles a little, and she looks down at her napkin again and sniffles. Greta is crying. “I made that quip about him earlier, and I didn’t mean it. He did a really good job with his teams, always worked really hard. I just-”
Brendon reaches over and lays his hand over her clenched fist on the table. He calmly pries her fingers apart and laces their hands together. “I know,” he whispers.
She looks up, eyes teary and nose red, and Greta picks up her napkin with her free hand and wipes at her nose. “Thanks,” she mumbles, and Brendon gives her hand a squeeze before letting go.
“Anytime.”
“Anyway,” Greta goes on, “I quickly pieced together what was going on. They think that Ross killed him, and you and Spencer are supposed to bring him in, right?”
Brendon hesitates. She isn’t supposed to know, but it isn’t his fault that she figured out. Okay, maybe it is a little. Finally, he nods.
“That’s what I thought. Otherwise, why were you two in so early for a meeting after you’d just finished a mission? There are rumors flying all over FBR420, I’ll have you know.”
Brendon watches her take a long drink from her wineglass before setting it firmly back on the table. “I’ve thought long and hard about this,” she says. “I sought you out because I have to tell you what I know.”
“And what do you know?” he asks slowly.
“Well, for starters, I know where he has been living.”
Brendon’s jaw drops. “And where…?”
“With my boyfriend,” she answers as their waiter brings their plates. The two thank him quietly but don’t make a move for their forks.
“Your boyfriend…” Brendon echoes.
She smiles. “Yeah, Alex. He-”
“Wait,” he says, holding a palm up. “Your boyfriend is Alex Greenwald?”
Her smile falters a little. “How do you know who Alex is?”
“Jon showed us pictures of Ross coming out of your boyfriend’s restaurant. And then I checked his file, and it says they dated back in 2001,” Brendon explains.
“Oh,” she says softly. “I didn’t realize you’d figured out that much. Ryan comes into the restaurant every day and never orders anything. He’ll eat only if Alex forces him to. He always comes and goes through the back, but if there’s a huge truck in the alleyway, he’s forced to go in through the front. Probably how he got spotted.” There is a pause. “Anyway, Ryan introduced us last year, said he thought I’d be good for Alex.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird, Ross setting you up with an old boyfriend?” Brendon asks.
Greta shakes her head. “No. I mean, Ryan is the only guy Alex has ever been with. You’ve seen Ryan’s picture. I don’t exactly blame Alex for going bi-curious for him. Plus, they were just teenagers, and with the all-boy environment they had in high school, things happen. Anyway, in the end, Alex realized the whole sex-with-guys thing wasn’t for him, and now, they’re like brothers. Which gets me back to my original point.”
“Ah, yes,” Brendon says, “Ross is living at your boyfriend’s house.”
“Right,” Greta says.
“You don’t think Alex will be mad that you’re telling me all this?”
She sighs. “Of course, he’ll be mad. But… one of my superiors is dead. Dead. And it’s my job…”
Brendon can tell she’d been wrestling with this for a few hours now. “Hey, hey,” he says soothingly to her over the noise of the restaurant, taking her hand briefly again. “It’s okay. You’re doing the right thing.”
Greta nods. “I’ll tell you where his house is, but you guys better not rush in there with the extraction. You have to have a damn good plan because you really can’t be underestimating Ryan. You need to catch him off guard.”
“Off guard, right,” Brendon mumbles as he takes out his phone. He quickly texts Jon. Any chance we can make tomorrow’s meeting earlier?
“Okay,” Greta says, picking up her fork finally. “We should eat. I think our food is getting cold.”
Just as Brendon nods, his phone buzzes, indicating an answer from Jon. 0900 hours then. I’ll tell Spencer. He smiles to himself, and finally, Brendon picks up his own fork and starts eating.
---------------
Brendon had barely gotten enough sleep, but it hardly matters since he is buzzing with energy. He has the small remote in his hand, which is shaking ever so slightly from excitement. A picture of a large, three-story home pops up onto the plasma screen, and Jon and Spencer are waiting for an explanation.
“This,” Brendon says as he gestures to the screen, “is the Malibu home of a Mr. Alexander Greenwald. Our mark, Ryan Ross, has been living here since its purchase three months ago. This is where he is hiding.”
A click of a button and the picture has turned into a virtual representation. Another click and each of the three floors have split off and turned over on its side, revealing floor plans for each story. A final click and the third floor becomes enlarged, taking up most of the screen.
“Ross has the whole third floor to himself, with the large, west-facing room as his bedroom. Greenwald’s bedroom is on the second floor, also west-facing. It seems they both enjoy the ocean view,” Brendon comments.
“How did you find out all of this?” Spencer asks. “I’ve been wracking my brain for a clue and got nothing.”
“You know, I thought long and hard about where I would go to hide. And then through simple deduction-”
“Brendon,” Jon says, a tone of warning mixed with amusement in his voice.
He sighs. “Greta told me. But I figured out that Ross was staying with Greenwald before she even said anything. Swear.”
“How does Greta know anything?” Spencer asks, completely ignoring the second part of that.
“She saw that I had Ross’s file,” Brendon answers, and Jon gives him a look. “And Alex Greenwald is her boyfriend, and she is friends with Ryan Ross.”
Jon speaks up, “And she just gave you all this information?”
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “I trust her. She was really distraught about Mr. Beckett’s death and said it was her job to come forward.”
“So do you have a plan?” Spencer asks, his pen poised over his legal pad, ready to take notes.
Brendon smiles. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
--------------------
“I always feel like such a doofus in these get-ups,” Spencer grumbles, and the sound of Jon’s laughter floods their ears. He isn’t right next to them, as one would think, but in the van three stories down and across the street. The van is yellow and has “Gio’s House Painters” written in large, curvy letters on the side, but instead of cans of paint and ladders in the back, there is a couple of million dollars’ worth of computer and surveillance equipment.
“I like it, even though white isn’t exactly my color,” Brendon responds, gesturing to the jumpsuit he has on and brushing nonexistent dirt off it. “Besides, it’d be far more conspicuous if we were in our usual black on black with black ski masks. Black may be more slimming, but we can’t draw attention to ourselves.
Brendon’s smirk lets Spencer know that he is teasing. “Jerk,” Spencer mutters and goes back to setting up the equipment. “So why exactly does this take two of us? Don’t you want to go back to the van and hang out with Jon?”
“Now, Spencer,” Jon says, his voice coming in clear, “you know you needed him to disarm the security system. Plus he’s your lookout from up there like I’m your lookout down here.”
Spencer rolls his eyes, even though Jon obviously can’t see. “Thank you, boss man. I knew that,” he says as he uncovers the equipment he is about to use. “Now, let me do my job so I feel like I’m here for a reason.”
“You got it,” Brendon says as he playfully salutes Spencer. Brendon adjusts next to Spencer, lying as flat on his stomach as he can against the roof of the house where they are, and he lifts the binoculars to his eyes, focusing on the third floor of the house next door.
They had already checked the restaurant, and they’d felt that Greenwald would continue to be there for at least a couple more hours since it was just at the height of lunch when they were there. Jon, who had been staking out the Greenwald residence since early that morning, had reported Ross leaving at seven AM, and Greenwald’s next-door neighbors had cleared from the house at nine. It only took Brendon a minute to disarm the “state of the art” security system, and the two broke in and climbed the roof with the black bag carrying their measuring device. They will have to come back later that night; it will definitely be more difficult to break in when people are home, but it always works out so none of them are too worried.
Spencer himself adjusts so that he is lying as flat as he can on his stomach as well, and props up the measuring device on the tiny tripod against his face. He looks through the eyepiece and swings the device until he is looking at the correct window. He takes aim carefully, using the crosshairs as a guide, and presses a button three times to get an accurate distance measurement. Then, Spencer lifts the device and hands it to Brendon to put away while he lays down a black X made of tape where the device had stood.
“Well, that’s done,” Spencer says as Brendon zips up the black bag. They make their way down the side of the house to the ladder they brought with them (being “house painters” and all). They descend it to the third story balcony of the master bedroom, and Spencer takes it with him inside the sliding glass door. Brendon closes it behind Spencer and locks it, smoothing out the curtains so they look undisturbed. They make their way swiftly and carefully through the house, making sure not to leave a trace of anything anywhere. They walk out through the back door, and Spencer waits as Brendon arms the security system again. The device he uses flashes green once, and Brendon removes it quickly and stows it in his pocket. They have two minutes to get out of the backyard, and it only takes them one to do so and reach the yellow van across the street.
Spencer opens the back of the van and Jon says, “Hiya!” with a grin that makes Spencer laugh as he helps pull in the ladder they used and takes the black bag from Brendon. Then Brendon goes around to the passenger seat while Spencer goes to drive, and when he looks back, Brendon sees Jon already with the measuring device. He takes out the memory card and sticks it in the reader in front of him, and Brendon can see the pictures and measurements upload onto the computer in the van.
“Great,” Jon mutters to himself. He looks to his left and sees Brendon watching him, so Jon gestures to the screen. “So you were right. There’s a tree in the way of your line of sight. You’ll need to use the crossbow that Patrick has been working on.”
“I was thinking,” Brendon says, pointing to the tree on the screen, “if we get the arrow to go around this limb over here, it’ll provide a good angle for us to just zip down to the window. That way we’ll only need to climb the rope to the tree instead of all the way across.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Spencer pipes up. “It’ll be easier on both of us.”
Jon nods his assent. “Alright, sounds like we’ve got a plan. We’ll start the extraction at 0300 hours tomorrow. When we get back to FBR420, you two go home and get some rest. We need you awake for your mission.”
“Oh, we’ll be ready,” Spencer says, smirking, as he glances at Brendon, who winks back.
--------------
Breaking in the second time isn’t as easy. First of all, there are actual people in this house while it is going on. Then, there’s the pesky thing of not being able to bring a ladder inside; they’re not house painters anymore. But Brendon does pretty well with a grappling hook, and the shoes he has on are made for climbing anyway.
Brendon is sure that he and Spencer blend well into the night. The two are wearing tight, form-fitting outfits of all black. They have specially made shoes (developed and tested by Patrick, of course) that were like climbing shoes except better since they also mute the agent’s footsteps so it’s as if they are walking on air and not someone’s roof. To complete their outfits, the two agents wear black ski masks, and lightweight night vision goggles are affixed to a catch built onto them.
Once the two are at the black X on the roof, Brendon prostrates himself down to where Spencer had been the day before, and Spencer does the same beside him, removing the bag from his back. From it, he pulls the crossbow out and hands it gingerly over to Brendon, who powers it on. He draws the path he needs the arrow to take (to the right a little, up and around, then to the left a little). Next, he enters the distance Spencer had measured out, and then he’s ready.
Spencer nods at him, and if they didn’t have to be absolutely silent right then, Brendon knows Spencer would’ve said something along the lines of “Do it.”
He takes aim, breathes in deep, and on the exhale, he shoots.
The arrow with the rope attached to it soars in the air, veers off to the right, just a bit, then goes up and around to wrap the rope around the tree limb, then to the left until it lodges itself into the wood just above the window they had been aiming for. As Brendon removes the other end of the rope from the crossbow, Spencer goes about to find the sturdiest shingle nearby to lodge the special stake they brought to tie the end of the rope to. He finally finds one he is satisfied with, and Spencer hooks the stake underneath it. Then he takes the rope from Brendon and ties a tight knot that Boy Scouts would be proud of. Spencer checks the rope one more time to make sure it is taut and secure enough to hold both him and Brendon.
Spencer points to himself, meaning that he will go first, and he crawls to the edge of the roof without hesitation. He takes a hold of the rope and lets the top of his foot find it so that all he has to do is keep his balance is lay across it and pull himself forward toward the tree, allowing his foot to drag against the rope behind him. The distance really isn’t that far.
Brendon watches with bated breath as Spencer makes his way slowly to the tree limb and releases it when both of Spencer’s feet are on the branch. Then he watches Spencer take out a device and clip it onto the section of rope between the tree and Greenwald’s house, turning it into a zip line, and Spencer is only swinging in the air for a few seconds before he lands safely on the balcony underneath the arrow.
Then it is Brendon’s turn, as he shoulders the bag with the crossbow. Brendon lives for this; it’s why he became an agent. He loves doing dangerous stuff like using only a rope to go from house to house and getting paid by the US government to do it. He makes it to the tree before he knows it, and then he zips to the balcony quickly, just as Spencer had. Then it is time to clean up their mess. He tugs on the rope, and he tries to remember the sequence that Patrick had taught him. Up, up, clockwise, down, right, up…
Finally, the stake that had been all that was keeping Spencer, Brendon, and the rope from moving slips easily from the shingle, and the rope falls down into the yard below. Brendon starts to pull it up, wrapping it in a coil around his hand and elbow, as Spencer dislodges the arrow from above the window. When they have retrieved all of the rope, they store it in Spencer’s bag. Now, they wait. It should be any second now.
All of sudden, the silence is broken by Jon’s voice coming in through their earpieces. “Security system is down. Feel free to enter Greenwald residence,” whispers Jon.
Brendon picks the lock, as the “window” turns out to be a couple of French doors that lead out to the balcony. It’s easy enough, with a pocket set of tiny tools. The door creaks open a little, and the two agents slip into the house.
Spencer points down the hall, waits a second, and then heads for Ross’s office. Greta had told Brendon that, if there were any evidence, his office would be the place to check. Now for the extraction.
Brendon moves down to the door Greta had told him about. The first one by the stairs is the door to Ross’s bedroom. If all went according to plan, Ross would be asleep in bed, and Brendon would sneak up to him and knock him out with a sophisticated version of chloroform (also developed by Patrick) so that he and Spencer can bring Ross in without a fuss.
He checks the door tentatively, and it’s unlocked so he opens it only enough to slip in. When he gets in, he has enough time to note the lump on the right side of the bed that must be Ross; he is asleep in bed, just like they planned. He reaches in his pocket for the vile of liquid and the cloth, and he spills it carefully as he walks noiselessly up to the bed. He even has enough time to take note of the spaciousness of the room, almost as big as Brendon’s whole condo.
When Brendon gets to the edge of the bed, he takes a deep breath as he grasps the covers, and he knows he only has a second after he pulls them down to knock Ross out. He counts 1, 2, 3 in his head and tugs…
…And all he finds are pillows and blankets.
“What the…?” Brendon whispers, but before he can finish his thought, he feels a tap, tap, tap on his shoulder.
When his head whips around, he has a second to look through his night vision goggles, and he distinctly sees a smirk before it is lights out completely, his body slumping to the floor after only one blow.
Part Two